Hidden Heart
by Elenothar
Summary: People do not like Holmes. They do not like him because he doesn't fit any of their definitions of the typical man. So it isn't surprising that they call him heartless and uncaring. Watson, however, knows better.


Title: Hidden Heart

Summary: People do not like Holmes. That is a fact. They do not like him because he doesn't fit any of their definitions of the typical man. That is his deduction. So it isn't surprising that they call him heartless and uncaring in an attempt to make him fit their expectations. Watson, however, knows better - for a fact.

Note: This could be interpreted as slash (well, duh, what can't?), but was not necessarily written in that intent.

Part I

The crime had taken place in a very typical (and thus boring, in his opinion) place; a graveyard, not too far from Baker Street itself. Ignoring the policemen standing around in uneasy huddles, and Lestrade cautiously looking over his shoulder, Sherlock Holmes bent down to inspect the murdered man's lifeless face.

"Hmm," he said noncommittally.

His year-long helpful partner and invaluable flat mate, John Watson, raised a brow. "Anything you can say for sure, Holmes?"

Holmes sighed inwardly. Sometimes the intellect (or lack thereof) of his fellow humans annoyed him to no end. _Of course_ he had figured out the 'mysterious' murder already. It was really rather irksome someone would suggest otherwise. Something of his disgruntledness must have shown in his expression, as Watson let out a quiet laugh.

"It's alright, Holmes. I didn't mean to imply that you don't."

He sniffed. "You better not.

"At any rate," and this he adressed at the rest of the group as well, "It is painfully obvious, that this man was - rather gruesomely as you probably see - murdered at 4 pm today with twelve blows of an iron poker. His murderer was a red-haired man aged 30,exactly six foot tall."

He paused for a second, looking at Lestrade.

"His name is Brandon Loger, if I'm not mistaken." The unspoken,_ which I am not_, didn't go unheard.

For a moment no one spoke. Holmes was well aware of the whispers coming from behind him. He was also well aware of their mostly unsavoury content (as the policemen responsible for it were _not_ aware of his excellent hearing). Of course their opinions of him were hardly of any importance, but, frankly, it did gall him just a little that they _assumed_. Just because he was standing here, at the site of the crime, deducing rationally how and who had killed this man, instead of blanching at the sight of a gruesomely disfigured body, did _not_ mean that he was a heartless bastard; especially because he knew both his parents for sure, and medically needed a heart to live, ergo had one. Furthermore not even he would be able to deduce that he cared for nobody just from the fact that he was a brilliant consultant detective. Instead of doing the right thing, the _rational_ thing, they _assumed_. It set Holmes' teeth on edge. It went completely against the first rule a detective had to ingrain in his mind: _never _assume. Assumptions meant trouble, often in a very literal way. Always use facts - then deduce. Then again no one would accuse most members of the police force of being particularly bright. On an intellectual level he knew he shouldn't let their pettiness get to him - yet it stung, if just a little.

Finally Watson broke the uneasy half-silence with a polite cough. "Don't you think you should set about trying to find the murderer, Lestrade?"

Lestrade started. "Oh. Yes, yes of course."

As he whirled around and began shouting orders at his men. Watson turned to him.

"Let's go, old cock," he said with a strange note of gentleness in his voice, laying a hand on his arm. "You've done your part. Now it's their task to find the bastard."

Holmes' lips curled wryly. In other words: Holmes, don't go running off after him on your own and get banged up. He sighed as he turned from the scene to begin the walk back to Baker Street. Watson had obviously brushed up on his own deducting skills, since he seemed to have noticed at least part of his (slight) agitation. Or maybe his tries at bullying him into paying attention to details had finally paid off. Either way, _of course_, he had to turn his newound perceptiveness on _him_ of all people. Figures.

He glanced covertly at his companion - and promptly found himself as the recipient of a piercing stare.

"Watson, you might consider spending less time in my presence, old boy. My bad habits are starting to rub off on you," he pointed out, raising his customary eyebrow.

The ex-soldier just chuckled. "Ah, Holmes, I think I'll worry about that once I start having sudden urges to play the violin at three in the morning...and then do it."

"My dear Watson, I desisted doing so for at least 604800 seconds."

"Yes, quite impressive that you've restrained yourself for all of a _week_." Watson snorted.

"Hmpf. At least play with style and am rather talented. I do think I remember quite clearly the last time _you_ tried your hand at playing an instruments, Watson."

The grimace on his flatmate's face clearly said that he did as well - and also would rather not remember it. Holmes smirked, his mood somewhat lightened. Winning arguments with Watson always helped his temper.

However, his satisfaction did not distract him so much that he didn't notice the trying to creep up on him from behind.

"Watson-"

He turned around - only to find a gun pointed at him from a distance of four meters. His mind immediately went into overdrive. He barely even registrated the startled gasp from next to him.

_Opponent: Male, red haired, about 30, six foot tall. Definitely the missing murderer. Danger: acute - man has showed violent tendencies before. Escape options: defilade, two meters to the right. Probability of survival if attempted: 65 percent. Probability of Watson surviving: zero. End result: not feasible._

He put his hands up in the air slowly, calmly. "Gentlemen, if we all could just remain civil here..."

Instead of focusing on him, however, as he had intended, the man suddenly swung his revolver around to point at _Watson_, with a menacing growl of "I wouldn't do that if I were you!"

At the same time Holmes, to his dawning horror, heard the distinct sound of a revolver clicking behind him. Well, _shit_. Don't do anything stupid, Watson, he implored silently, whilst his mind was already focusing on the new - and more complicated - situation. _Watson: not desisting. face determined. Opponent: clenching his hand on the gun. Trigger finger moving, equaling getting ready to shoot. Probability of Watson sustaining serious injury: very high._

A second before his opponent's eye ticked in indication of impending action, Holmes came to the only logical conclusion.

Thus it happened that the bullet aimed for his best (and, to be completely honest, only) friend did not find its mark. However, unfortunately, yet completely intentionally, it did find _a_ mark. Just not the intended one.

Over the roaring in his ears Holmes only distantly heard another gun going off. The ground was rushing to meet him. A flare of pain. Someone was shouting in the distance, but all his energy had met a sudden end. Finally, blissful, silent darkness greeted him, warmly, like and old friend.

Part II

Awakening came as a surprise. Not the kind of gobsmacking surprise that something completely unforseen happening causes - for one Sherlcok Holmes was never something as trite and normal as gobsmacked, and for another nothing was completely unforseen when his mind was involved. No, it was the kind of happy surprise caused by something seen as possible but judged as improbable happening.

The happiness, sadly did not last terribly long, however, as Holmes became aware of the aching - and highly distracting - pain in his right side; not to mention the generally sorry and muddled state his mind was in. In a - mostly, but not completely - vain attempt at distracting himself, he decided to take stock of his current situation (or predicament as Watson would call it).

First step, open eyes. A familiar ceiling swam into focus. He blinked. There was no recollection in his mind as to how he had got back to Baker Street. The simple act of puzzling about that slightly disturbing fact for all of two seconds reminded him that he had actually woken with a pounding headache as well - as his head told him in no uncertain terms to stop trying to think so darn much. Though not thinking was not usually part of his action-spectrum, for once he let the matter rest (fighting with his own head somehow never ended in a pleasant way). At least Watson had not dragged him to a hospital in panic. Speaking of Watson; a slight, snoring sound emmanated from his right. Being intimately accustomed to his flatmate's snores by now, he instantly knew whose they were, but he still turned his head anyway - slowly, no need to antagonize his temples. Sure enough, there was Watson slumped in a chair beside his bed, eyes closed, mouth slightly open. Holmes only just prevented himself from frowning. Though there was no physical mark or injury on his friend he could discern, Watson looked drawn and tired. His rumpled clothing, when he ususally prefered military-neat, definitely indicated that he had been looking over Holmes for far longer than was healthy. Somehting warm stirred in his chest, but Holmes being Holmes ignored it skillfully.

As if woken by his piercing stare, Watson't breathing pattern suddenly changed, and his eyes opened. In a gesture that Holmes immediately recognized as ingrained by overusage, he turned his still sleepy gaze to the bed. The instant widening of his grey eyes was near comical.

"Holmes!" Jumping up from his perch on the worn chair, the doctor immediatly pushed back the covers to get a good look at the wound. "How are you feeling?"

"Definitely better than dead," he replied wryly, as Watson leaned over to peer into his eyes. The proximity only served to make the pain flickering over Watson't face more noticeable.

"Don't joke about that, Holmes," he said quietly, turning his back to him to gaze out the window (trying to hide his pain from him, Holmes' mind supplied helpfully). "You were...very close to leaving us forever, old friend."

Silence.

"Too close."

Confronted with those two words, spoken in such a lost tone of voice, Holmes, for once in his life, was at a loss for words.

"Watson-"

The doctor whirled around to face him again, posture tense. "_Don't_, Holmes. Don't demean me - and _yourself _- by making light of this."

"Watson-"

"No, I said no, Holmes!" His counterpart was close to screaming. He was definitely suffering from a serious case of too many bottled up emotions.

Holmes smiled gently. "Watson, you haven't been taking care of yourself, old boy."

Watson froze in the midst of opening his mouth to continue shouting. He blinked confusedly. "What?"

Holmes raised a dark eyebrow. "It is painfully obvious, my dear doctor. Your clothing is rumpled and stained, whereas you usually wouldn't step foot outside your bedroom without proper attire. From your drawn face and the dark bags under your eyes I deduce that you haven't slept properly in about," he squinted, "four days. Which, by the way, is also being indicated by the fact that you fell asleep while watching over me though it is obvious you tried to remain lucid."

"That's not what I...never mind. It has been five days, actually," Watson passed a weary hand over his face. "You have been unconscious ever since you were shot."

Holmes looked at him seriously. "You should get some rest. I'm fine."

"You are _not_ fine, Holmes! If that bullet had hit just a few inches higher you would have been dead!"

He sighed. There obviously was something else that bothered Watson, but this wasn't the right time to push. "You're being unreasonable. The bullet _did not _hit any higher - always consider the facts. Also, truly, I will be fine. After all I had an excellent doctor."

"Me, unreasonable. You're one to talk!" Watson grumbled, then sighed with obvious reluctance. "But you're right. I'll take a nap on the couch. _Do_, however call me if the slightest thing is wrong, do you understand, Holmes?" The last was accompanied by a typical Watson-in-doctor-mode hard grey-eyed stare.

Holmes nodded dutifully. He, however, just couldn't help but call after his friend's retreating back, "And I'm never unreasonable - my mind is highly logical!"

A chuckle rewarded that outrageous comment. "True, but your stubborness isn't."

A few minutes later both men were fast asleep, this time a healthy sleep of healing - for both.

Part III

"Never, ever, do that again, Holmes."

The words were spoken with such a quiet intensity that he turned around in his chair to look at Watson. He was met with a stare that could have melted stone.

"Do what again? Nearly die or safe your life?" Holmes asked, straightening up from his slouch - only to wince as the motion tore at his newly healed wound.

It was a testament to how distracted by his brooding Watson was that he didn't notice. "This isn't funny, Holmes," he said frowning.

Holmes shrugged. "I prefer brevity to all the gloom and doom _you've _been spreading."

"You aren't the one who nearly caused his best friend to die!" his partner snapped.

Another shrug. Brown eyes met grey ones. "It was _my _choice, Watson. At the time it was the only logical course of action if we both wanted to survive that unfortunate encounter. I've also grown rather attached to the notion of not having to pay my rent all alone. I would've to take on the most _boring _cases to afford it."

Watson's face involuntarily twitched into a grin. "And of course we can't have that now, can we? The great Sherlock Holmes going after missing socks and petty girlfriends...it would make for a few smashing stories, I'm sure."

The thought made Holmes physically shudder. "It would be utterly repugnant! You wouldn't believe some of the things people think they need a consulting detective for!"

"Like the one that wanted to hire you to get his daughter laid? _Personally_?" Watson smirked. "That's what you get for being so infamous, Holmes."

"He wasn't even the worst one," the detective mumbled darkly.

But inwardly he was smiling, for once even without being buried in an interesting case. They were back to their easy camaraderie and sniping. Everything was fine. That was, right up until Gladstone let out a huge burp and collapsed on the rug - and Watson started yelling at him.

_Then_ things were even better.


End file.
